


Worth Fighting For

by JaqofSpades



Series: To win the war [2]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Underage Fantasy, vague whispers of non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 21:24:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3396872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlotte Matheson usually wears a lot less clothing in his dreams, and generally isn’t bleeding from a scatter of buckshot.  Or tied up in an abandoned swimming pool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth Fighting For

**Author's Note:**

  * For [romeokijai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/romeokijai/gifts).



> So romeokijai REALLY likes "Uncle Bass" and asked for more. Blame her :D

Monroe opens his eyes, then shakes his head, sure he’s still dreaming. But Charlotte Matheson usually wears a lot less clothing in his dreams, and generally isn’t bleeding from a scatter of buckshot. Or tied up in an abandoned swimming pool. How -

The crossbow bolt that had missed him by a hair. She had tried to take him out, but these bounty hunter pricks had snatched him from under her nose. Maybe he’ll thank them before he kills them, he thinks as Charlotte’s head lolls against her shoulder. She looks ridiculously young like this, and vulnerable. 

And then her eyes open.

Wariness uncoils around her as she fights her bonds for a minute, then looks up to see him. Her very breath stops, every muscle on alert, and it’s only when she’s convinced they’re both equally helpless that she relaxes a little. If hatred so thick he can practically smell it could count as relaxing.

She’s practically begging for him to needle her.

“Hello, Charlotte,” he says, and she bristles and spits like the vicious little cat she is. Glorious in her fury and condescension, right up to the point he reminds her she’s just like her mother. He means it, in that moment, but knows it’s only half the truth.

She’s nothing like Rachel, he discovers when she chases him down, a whirlwind of raw fury and flailing fists that he can’t stop short of a hard punch to her solar plexus. Rachel is eternally cold, every last drop of emotion locked away to leave that big brain free to chart her course. Charlie is pure fire, an inferno of raw feeling lit by an unstoppable drive that terrifies him. It’s going to get her killed, and how the hell can he keep her alive when all she wants is to see him dead?

He’s grown so used to fate shitting on him that he almost misses the answer when it presents itself. For bounty hunters they have precious few weapons locked in that cart of theirs, but a bunch of interesting bounties. The annoyingly familiar symbol grabs his attention first, and chills ripple up his spine when he places it as the sigil on Randall Flynn’s ring. These so-called US bastards want Rachel. Good luck to them, he thinks, if they think they’re gonna get a damn thing out of her. He’d pay for seats to that show, especially with Miles in the mix. And Charlie might not like her Mom much, but she’ll happily go to war for her.

And if these are the guys that nuked his city, he wants in on that. Needs to replace the nightmares and the cold sweats and horrible weight of failure with the purity of cold steel and vengeance. Miles owes him this, argues the poor, deluded part of his psyche that needs to relate everything back to Miles. But there’s something else uncoiling in there, something newer and more base, but for all that, slightly more sane. Charlotte, it whispers.

He has no doubt Miles will have schooled his niece in battlefield logic, that dance of needs must, the enemy of my enemy and the devil’s bargain. “Take me to Miles,” he demands. “You need me.”

The shotgun quivers in his hands as she waltzes away, hips swinging as if to mock him for just how much he wants to fuck this girl. He follows. And afterwards, after his swords have drunk deep at the necks of the men who would have raped her, after he’s watched her mumble in her sleep and beg someone not to touch her and sweat and retch and slowly flush the drugs out, he tells her straight. He’ll follow her into hell. 

Hell, he’ll discover, is trying not to care about a girl who hates him. Trying not to notice the way she eyes him after a fight, chest heaving and pupils dilated. Trying not to taunt her into flying at him, furious, so he can wrestle her into the ground just to enjoy the feel of her underneath him.

He fails.

*

“So what kind of stupid was that then, Charlotte? Garden variety Matheson bullshit, with a special Charlie twist on how to get yourself killed?”

Two days out of Willoughby, and they catch news of a war clan on the move, and have to detour away from the main road to avoid it. And yes, they needed to figure out how to do that, but his plan hadn’t involved her marching into the local garrison and making eyes at its commander.

“Get over yourself, Monroe. We needed that map, I got that map. Stop sulking.”

They’re toe to toe, the offending article still rolled tight in her hand, a knife still bloody in his. He’d laid out a plan that involved minimal risk; she’d decided to ignore it completely to make use of the assets nature had blessed her with. 

He lets his eyes run all over the flesh that she’s exposed, telling himself he’s only mad because it was stupid, and unnecessary. “You think you had that situation handled? Not going to tell you these ain’t pretty,” he licks his lips ostentatiously as she fumes, “but they’re not that good, kid.” 

The taunt falls on ridiculously fertile ground. She’s the one who steps in close, and drags in a breath that nearly makes him groan. 

“Kid, huh? Says the man who wants to kill everyone who looks at me,” she hisses up into his face. “Does all that hypocrisy hurt, Monroe?”

He curls his lip and tells his cock to sit the fuck down. “You are a kid. I used to babysit you before the Blackout. You’d climb into my lap and call me Uncle Bass.”

“Is that what you were thinking about last night when you were jerking off? That little girl? Is that what got you hard, Uncle Bass?”

_Touch me, Uncle Bass. Please, Uncle Bass. Make me feel good …_

It’s close enough to his favourite fantasy that he loses it. He tells himself he’s pulling up her bra to cover her decently, but ends up pushing the cups down, tugging at the lace until he can see the pinky brown glory of her jutting nipples. “Say that again and see what happens, Charlotte.”

So fucking Matheson, he thinks as she lifts her chin and straightens her spine.

“Do you like my tits, Uncle Bass?”

Their stares lock, spitting heat, and he refuses to give her the satisfaction of a single word. Instead, he yanks the bra down to her waist, leaving her breasts completely bared, vulnerable to the soft tease of his fingertips as they ghost along the undersides of her breasts. She’s swaying towards him by the time he lowers his head to answer her question.

Yes, he seethes, as he swirls his tongue over the bumps of her areolae. Yes, he rages, flicking and tugging and pinching her nipples into aching prominence. Yes, he rejoices as he bites down, then sucks so hard her knees give out. He eases them to the ground, never once letting his lips leave her flesh, taking every shudder and moan as a personal victory in this dirty, dirty war.

He’s not sure who is more astonished when her whole body convulses, her cries of pleasure loud in his ear as she grinds herself against his hip, suddenly desperate. He lifts his head to be sure, and finds her eyes wide with shock, an orgasmic flush decorating her from forehead to thighs. She bites her lip, embarrassed, and it occurs to him he should back off. Actually act like the gentleman he’d claimed to be, just a handful of days ago. 

Maybe she shouldn’t have scoffed so hard, he thinks vengefully, licking a wet trail up her neck to seize the fleshy lobe of her ear between his teeth. He wants her to hear every damn word, wants to brand them into her skin and torture her with her own, twisted desire.

“From the first moment I saw them, kid. You were busy staring down a gun and I’m thinking, fuck, those are some pretty little tits. If only your mother wasn’t being such a bitch, we might have had time to play. Would you have liked that, Charlie? Spreadeagled against the wall while I worked my way down your body? ”

“You’re a sick fuck, Monroe,” she hisses, but it doesn’t stop her from groaning at the sensation of his hand dragging down the centre of her body, and delving into the gape of her leather pants to toy at the elastic of her underwear. His long fingers curl around her mound, not even moving, but she bucks up into it anyway. Oh, this was so happening.

“Course, at the time I was more interested in shoving you face-down on my desk and fucking you raw. Didn’t know it’d be so easy to make you come.” 

Her knee shoots up in a bid to emasculate him, and just like that, they’re fighting again. He’s wondering just how many places this girl can conceal a knife when she spreads her knees, letting him fall down between them. He doesn’t waste time wondering if it was by accident or design, simply slams his hips down into the cradle of hers, driving his stubborn bastard of a cock hard into the seam of her jeans. The scrape of her blade against his ribs suddenly fades into irrelevance, the need to be inside her blasting everything else away.

He grabs her hand and guides the knife up to his throat. “You make me stop, or you make me go. Your choice,” he grits out, and waits for the blade to bite. His hands, however, are already unlacing, too impatient to wait for her reckoning. Instead, they scout the contours of her sex, lovingly outlined by bliss-soaked panties. He nudges the sodden cotton aside to sop his fingers in her juices, then brings them to his mouth, ravenous.

“So fucking sweet,” he groans, sucking and slurping at his fingers to chase down every last molecule of his tangy treat. “Taste how sweet you are.” The knife clatters somewhere on the ground as she grabs his hand, and slicks a questioning tongue over one the digits.

“You seriously … like that?” she mutters after a moment, more uncertain than he’s ever heard her. He has a sudden memory of a chatty hooker telling him how oral sex was a dying art. They’d never figured out whether it was some sort of new Puritanism, or simply too few showers, but whatever the cause, Charlie’s scepticism tells him they were right on the money.

He crushes their lips together, and tries not to think this is the first time he’s kissed her, the first time he’s tasted her mouth. They fight until they are writhing together, bodies wrapping around each other in glorious counterpart to their tangled tongues, anger and spite and fury banished by the pleasure they find in each other’s mouths.

“Do you like the taste of my mouth, Charlotte?” he asks eventually, and ignores the blush the colours her cheekbones as she nods mutely. She’s still struggling with the fact that she wants him, and he’s not about to rub it in her face when she’s sprawled out beneath him, still breathing hard from his kisses.

“So magnify that by a thousand, and you get how much I like the taste of your pussy. Especially now, just after you’ve come. I’m gonna lick every last trace of it out of you, then make you do it all over again, so I can feel you around my tongue this time,” he explains, eyes locked with hers, a lazy finger circling her clit as he makes his point.

“Or you could just fuck me,” she gasps, twisting her hips to maximise the sensation.

“Nope. You want my cock, you’re gonna have to ask real nicely. Convince me you deserve it.”

Her lips twist in a sneer. He wants to tell her that it’d be a lot more convincing if she wasn’t already driving down onto his hand into a bid to force his fingers into her channel.

“Please fuck me, Uncle Bass. Is that what you want to hear?”

“Wrong fantasy,” he smirks, and she raises an eyebrow in silent question.

“You’re maybe 16, 17. All fresh and clean from your bath, one of those frilly little shortie nightdress things on. I’m sitting in the library with Miles, and you come in to say goodnight. You give him a kiss on the cheek, but then you crawl into my lap, and that’s when I find out you don’t have a damn thing on underneath.”

He feels the breath hiss out of her lungs, and the way the question lodges in her throat before she gathers her courage to force it out.

“Then what happens?”

“I unzip my trousers and let you decide what to do. You’re only a kid, after all. Just growing into all this,” he says, running his hands down her back.

“So what happens?”

“You tell me.”

“I’m shy. But I want to touch you. With my hand, first.” His already restless pulse starts to hammer as she drifts her hand across the front of his jeans, playacting the moment. “I don’t know what I’m doing but you tell me what feels good.”

And fuck. She’s unzipping him.

“Your mouth’ll feel good.”

“I’m 17. Hardly ready for that.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he punches out on a groan, bucking up into her hand.

“But I might be curious. Just a little lick, to see how you taste?”

She’s kneeling over him, now, and he has to gather her hair in his fist to be able see what she’s doing. His hips fly upwards as her tongue rasps over his cockhead, then slides up the underside of his poor, straining cock. She closes her lips over him for a moment, and his vision blurs with the pleasure.

“Is that good, Uncle Bass? What happens if I suck?” 

“Fuck. _Fuck,_ Charlotte.”

“Thought I’d be begging you?”

“Seriously, girl, get up here. I’m gonna come like fucking freight train if you keep that up.”

“You want a woman or a girl, Monroe?”

“Jesus, Charlie. Just you. Please.” He sounds broken, he realises after the fact. He’s the one begging, and she’ll never let him forget it. But he’s beyond caring as she stands up to yank her pants off, then sinks down on him.

He wanted to eat her out, fuck her senseless, make her pay, he thinks frantically as the spiral tightens.

She’s riding him straight to oblivion, cat eyes wicked on his face as he surrenders to her slick magic. He’s groaning, slamming up into her when she grips his shoulders and whispers in his ear.

“So where’s Uncle Miles, then? Is he watching us?”

He lets go with a roar, pushing her off him to jerk uncontrollably against her belly, his cum splattering up across her breasts and even onto her face. He sinks back onto the ground and drags long gulps of air into his lungs as he processes what just happened.

The little minx.

He wonders exactly what Miles has told her, and if she actually cares. Or maybe she even … no. He can’t go there, not when Miles still hates him. (It hurts too much to hope.) 

One thing he does know, though. That’ll be making the fantasy rotation. And how.

Monroe forces his eyes back into focus to find the girl still sitting on his hips, smirking at him. He lifts his hand to wipe a dribble of semen from the corner of her mouth, and is surprised when she catches his fingers and licks them clean.

Charlie shrugs at the query on his face, and rolls off him and onto her back. “You tasted me, I tasted you. Now get on with it.”

He bristles at the command, but bends to obey. Once, he was just another soldier, and better at taking orders than most. And even General Monroe knew that sometimes, you have to lose the battle to win the war. It’ll never be easy, and they’ll be in the trenches for years. But some things are worth fighting for.

(She’s a Matheson, and this is his most beloved war.)


End file.
